A Stoic Mind and A Bleeding Heart
by Somewhat Quirky
Summary: AU in which Amy's a bored uni student, the Doctor's an astrophysicist, and he almost runs her down with an old yellow roadster.
1. Origins, and a Yellow Roadster

**Disclaimer:** I don't write _Doctor Who_. Damn.

**"Origins, and a Yellow Roadster"**

_i'm wishing, wishing further  
for the excitement to arrive_

Amy Pond starts her first year at university wondering exactly how she ever came to be there. She's living in student halls with an outspoken girl called Mels, and a funny bloke called Rory from the other side of the corridor seems to have become her best friend after they bonded over the Macarena at a party three weekends back. Her schedule is unbelievably free, because apparently Art History and Classical Studies and Journalism classes don't take up much time, so she spends at least half of each Wednesday and Friday taking the Underground in and out of London, like something important will come of it.

Back in Leadworth, she was a big deal, all lengthy limbs and red hair; if she hadn't been so butch in primary school, she'd probably have had a proper boyfriend by now. Well, a proper boyfriend who wasn't _Jeff_. But here in London, no one pays her much attention. That is, until she's almost run over by some miserable canary-yellow excuse for a roadster on her way back from the Greenwich Observatory.

"Oh my gosh! Oh my goodness! Are – are you okay?"

The driver leaps out as Amy springs back, and she's too busy breathing heavily and cursing under her breath that she doesn't look up until he – because that much she could tell, from the voice – is standing right beside her and she notices his shoes.

Amy's never set much in store by what other people wear, but this bloke's got a unique sense of style if ever she saw one. It starts with dark boots and trousers, which were forgivable if not semi-professional, and crescendos into a brown tweed coat – complete with elbow patches – and a blue bowtie.

_Thank God he missed_, Amy thinks to herself. _I was almost assassinated by a granddad in a yellow roadster_.

But his face, like his voice, isn't old. In fact, he wouldn't be much older than her. He's got long, floppy hair that falls in his eyes a bit, and the eyes themselves are a confusing myriad of grey and blue and green and hazel, searching Amy's own as the person they belong to reprimands himself for being so careless.

"I'm so sorry – I must be a much worse driver than I thought – that's new, I promise – I didn't actually hit you, did I?"

Amy smiles, if only because this strange bloke is so concerned. _He should be less worried about me and more worried about the fact he's wearing tweed in broad daylight_. But she bites this thought back and says, "Oh, no you didn't. I'm fine. I mean, maybe there's a bit of shock there, but medically, I'm fine."

The driver beams at her, then quite clumsily extends his hand. "Sorry! I should probably introduce myself after almost hitting you with a car – I'm the Doctor. _Well_ – no – that's what they call me up at the Observatory, bit of a joke. I'm John Foreman."

Amy reaches her hand out and shakes John's. "I'm Amelia Pond. Friends call me 'Amy'."

"Do I count as a friend?" John Foreman asks earnestly.

"I don't know," says Amy, a smile tugging at her cheeks again, "you _did_ just almost hit me with your car."

"I s'pose I can consider that one. But there's nothing wrong with Amelia, is there? It's pretty fairytale."

Amy laughs. "So's 'the Doctor'. What's that about?"

"I'm the youngest person with a doctorate in Astrophysics, up there at the Observatory."

She raises her eyebrows. "You – you work at the Observatory? You have a doctorate? What are you – a _genius_?"

"What's so funny?" John asks, still earnest. Amy thinks he must be earnest all the time.

"You – a _doctor_ – you look about five!"

Indignant, John stammers, "I'm twenty-three, actually!"

Amy stops. "You're _kidding_. You _are_ a genius. You must be."

"Why? What do you do for a living?"

She shrugs noncommittally. "Uh… nothing at the moment, really. I've just started uni – Journalism, Classics, Art History... I'm liking it, but – you're an _astrophysicist_ – oh my _god_. An _astrophysicist_. With _elbow patches!_"

* * *

They're not far from where Amy would usually catch her ferry, so John offers to walk her there. She can't say she _minds_ terribly, because as ancient as his clothes seem to be, John certainly isn't, and even though half the things he says make her think puberty's just a wild stab in the dark, there's some endearing quality he possesses: like he thinks everything in the entire world is important, and worth chronicling. She decides two minutes into their walk, after he almost trips over a tree branch, that she likes this about him.

Upon their arrival at the dock, Amy finds that the ferry is two hundred meters away. Headed – _quite_ conveniently – in the direction of London. She fights the urge to swear, and John squints at the boat in the distance.

"You seem to have missed your ferry," he remarks.

"Yeah, I was a bit busy being almost run over by a twelve-year-old in tweed."

John furrows his eyebrows. "There won't be another for at least twenty minutes."

Amy sighs and tries to look around for something to sit down on while she waits. "Well, there's not much I can do in twenty minutes."

"Nonsense! You can do loads in twenty minutes!"

"Fine then," says Amy, taking a step closer to him. "Let's get coffee."

"What?"

"It's the least you can do after almost running me down. Besides," she adds, pressing her lips together, "you know this area better than I do, _Doctor_."

* * *

"You're Scottish," John says, once they've found a café and Amy's ordered her coffee and John's ordered tea and she's not sure if he actually _is_ a little kid or not.

"Have you just noticed?"

He ignores this. "What brings you down here? Why not go to university in Edinburgh or Glasgow or something? Don't Scots horrifically despise the English?"

Amy laughs. "I moved to Leadworth when I was a kid. It's a little town up north, not really worth a spot on the map. I had to come and live with my aunt Sharon because my parents just kind of dropped off the face of the Earth."

John frowns, but Amy keeps going. "It's not that they _died_, I don't think – I mean, they _could_ be dead, for all they've said to me the past twelve years, but – I don't know, they just sort of went away one night and didn't come back." She chuckles. "When you say it like that, it sounds like Sharon tried to cover up the fact they slid off the road coming home from the museum or something."

Suddenly, she stops herself. "Oh, God. That's really touchy-feely and I am _so_ sorry – I hate that sort of thing – why did I just _dump _that on you? I'm not a sob story, I promise. It's not like, my _defining_ characteristic, I just…"

John shakes his head. "I don't mind. Hearing about your life, that is. Other people have interesting stories, and the stories are almost always important."

Amy raises her eyebrows at him mid-coffee sip. She moves the mug away from her lips, only far enough away to be able to speak. "Are you a living, breathing Hallmark card?"

He looks up, and his eyes are half obscured by the floppiness of his hair. His tea's done, but his hands are still wrapped around the mug. She thinks he might be bobbing his knees up and down under the table but it's more a habitual gesture than any sign of nerves or discomfort. She realizes it's been more than twenty minutes.

"What happens if I miss the ferry again?" she decides to ask.

John runs a hand through his hair; his eyes become fully visible. "I s'pose you could take the bus, or the train. There's a train here. Do you like the boat, though?"

Amy shrugs. "I like travelling. Seeing the world differently than how I usually would is what I'm after. Boat, or no boat."

There's a moment of silence and then John claps his hands together. "Don't take this the wrong way – please don't think I'm being forward – but I live closer to London than I do to here and I'll probably be going the same way as you anyway – so – just, er – if – if you _like_ – you could ride home with me. I mean, not to _my _home. To wherever you live. Where _do_ you live?"

She's laughing by now, if only at how perfectly sincere he is. Aunt Sharon always told her not to get into cars with strangers, but Amy's grown to live a bit more dangerously than Sharon would probably approve of. Living with Mels has taught her to do things as though she'll never do them again. (Mels herself is very literal on this front: she bought home a fishy bloke called Jim the other night, and what eventuated led Amy to the extreme of crossing the corridor and waking up a befuddled Rory – bless him – with the odd request of sleeping on his couch.)

So Amy leaps upon the opportunity to be driven home by an astrophysicist in the car that almost ran her over, and she thoroughly enjoys herself. John drives haphazardly, but takes great care in making sure Amy doesn't get thrown around too much. They arrive at her halls of residence and she wants to kiss him goodbye, but also doesn't, because he acts like a seven-year-old and dresses in such a way she can only describe as Antiques Roadshow Chic.

She gets his number, and he gets hers; John makes her repeat it, just to make sure he got it right, and she obliges even though she's not sure his phone – an ancient, battered, blue Nokia – actually works.

When Amy climbs out of the car and shuts the door behind her, John says, "Well, Amy Pond, I had a wonderful time with you today. I'm sorry for almost running you over."

She smiles. "Thanks for not killing me before we actually got to know each other. That was excellent. Great timing." She pauses, then adds, for the sake of parallel structure: "I'm sorry this didn't turn into dinner."

John blushes, but Amy doesn't give him much time to think on it. She's best when people don't have time to dissect her.

"I'll see you some other time, then?"

From the driver's seat of the canary-yellow roadster, the place where he saw her first, John nods. "Until then, Amelia Pond."

"Nice meeting you, Doctor," she agrees, relishing the nickname, before she spins on her heel and lopes through the door of the halls of residence.


	2. Café

**Disclaimer:** If I had any say in the affairs of _Doctor Who_, there would be an affair happening between Matt Smith and myself. Hot damn.

"**Café"**

_waste days in foreign places_

_shed lights on your better side_

One wing of the Greenwich Observatory has been nicknamed the Paternoster, because of the strange amalgam of employees who work there. Behind the dark blue door at the end of the main corridor is the office of John Foreman (and of course, he's no stranger in this particular narrative, and therefore requires no detailed description beyond the fact his door was dark blue and at the end of the main corridor). The two doors perpendicular to the dark blue door are parallel to each other, on opposite sides of the hall.

The door to the left is painted black, with a white marker on the door reading _Jenny Flint_. The door opposite it is olive green, bearing the credentials of John's intimidating co-worker, Vastra. The fourth member of what is nicknamed the "Paternoster Gang" is the Scandanavian security guard Stephen Rax, who is very short and very butch and called _Strax_ because it suits him better than _Stephen_.

John has been working at the observatory for eleven months. He came in fresh as soon as he'd finished his doctorate, and the strange trio he met when assigned his shoebox-sized office made him feel right at home. Jenny is petite, pale, with brown hair and brown eyes; she's clever and snarky and that surprised him at first, to the point he could have fallen in love with her, if she didn't prefer women over men, or live with Vastra. Especially since those two things are very closely intertwined.

Vastra herself is tall, with perfect posture and a slightly cultured twinge in her voice. Everything about her is angular: from the sleek, layered bob that brushes her chin to the green dragon tattoo she has on her back. The green of the dragon matches the green of her eyes and the green streak in her hair and despite the fact that she has a tattoo and dyed hair she is possibly one of the scariest, most professional people John has ever met. He admires her terribly.

"Why do you look so cheerful?" Jenny asks one day, when she's entering the planetarium and John's striding out of it, Nokia clutched in his hand. "What's going on?"

John stops, spins on the spot, and holds up his phone. On the screen, there's a text message, reading: _Hey, Raggedy Doctor. It's Amy. Pond. Hope you haven't forgotten me. I'm the girl you almost ran over, so it'd be pretty rubbish if you didn't even remember I existed. I'll be in Greenwich tomorrow after my morning lecture. Coffee?_

"Wait, what?" Jenny throws him a cursory glance. "What's this about running someone over?"

"There was a girl last week and my car and I was a bit distracted thinking about Craig's football match on Saturday but I didn't run her over, I promise!" He sighs. "But that's not important – what matters is _that_ – " He prods the screen of his phone. " – She's asking me out to – to _coffee_! I don't… should I bring scones?"

Jenny shakes her head with the ghost of a fond smile on her lips. "Look, Doctor. No need for you to worry: she's just asking you out for a drink, which is a good thing after you not speaking to her for a week," she adds. "Do you _want_ to go?"

"Yes," John says, "why not? I like her. Don't I? I think I – "

"Well, don't leave a reply too long, or she'll think you've forgotten again."

He smiles a tiny bit. "Oh no, Jenny. I could never forget Amelia Pond."

* * *

The Bad Wolf café isn't a large space, but it always seems to accommodate massive amounts of people without ever being overcrowded. Amy looks around; using both her height and her tiptoes to locate the friends she is meant to be meeting. It's noon, and she's just got out of a lecture on Greek and Roman forms of government, and the thing she needs most right now is probably a coffee, or a friend to discourage her from ditching her afternoon Journalism class in favour of a trip to one of London's art museums. Or, better yet, a friend to join her.

She sees Rory from across the hall sitting at a table with a pretty, dark-haired girl, who gives him a squeeze, then stands and departs, blushing as she passes Amy on the way out. The ginger slowly meanders over to Rory, who is still looking a bit giddy.

"Who was that?" Amy asks, before plopping herself down in the seat the girl vacated without wondering if perhaps she should've asked.

"Jennifer," Rory says. His dreamy expression hasn't ebbed.

"She another doctor-to-be, then?"

"Oh, no." Rory shakes his head. "Biochemical engineering. Genetics."

Amy takes one of the biscuits left on his plate and then points to the counter. "I'm going to get a coffee, yeah?"

The barista she encounters today is thankfully not Vicky, who is a girl Amy met at a party the previous weekend, who did not say much, but when she did, proceeded to moan about the fact that a bloke named Sean didn't like her. Instead, it's Rose, who is blonde and tough and can read people like they're children's books. Amy likes her quite a bit.

Rose sets about making Amy's coffee and asks her if she's seen that John Smith bloke since the time he drove her home.

"Foreman," Amy corrects, somewhat subdued, "and no, I haven't. Mels says blokes like that usually call in five minutes" – at this, Rose grins – "but that one in particular mustn't have thought anything of it. Twelve days and not a word from the Doctor."

"Well, I'm sure it'll all work out in the end," says Rose, setting Amy's coffee cup onto a plastic tray. "You sure you don't want a cake or anything?"

"No, I'll be all right. I've got a lecture soon anyway, and there's a guest coming in to give a talk so I probably shouldn't be eating. Disrespect and all that."

"Might be that Sarah Jane Smith lady." Amy's eyes widen, and Rose nods. "Yeah, the one from the… _Times_, I think? I don't know – she came in earlier with one of the lecturers."

"Sarah Jane _Smith_?" Amy repeats, practically unable to wrap her head around it.

Sarah Jane Smith always seems to tackle the most interesting stories, from a school trying to spike their students with chemicals to make them smarter to the United Nations Intelligence Taskforce teaming up with the Torchwood Institute to do research on a comet passing almost directly past the earth's atmosphere. As far as idols go, Sarah Jane Smith is Amy's.

Rose chuckles, eyebrows knitting together. "Still want your coffee?"

"Uh – yeah – yeah, thanks for that," Amy says, snapping back to reality. "And to think! I was going to skive off!"

Another smile from Rose, and then she asks, "you coming to Demons Run later? Mickey said something about a bloke from his shop getting us in on a discount."

Amy shrugs. "I don't know. Mels said something about it the other day but I've got an assignment due on Thursday and the universe knows I'll end up writing _The Invasion of the Hot Italians_ if I don't actually get something done."

* * *

"Why are you leaving work this early, again, Doctor?"

John pulls his coat around himself and takes two large steps, meeting Vastra in the middle. She towers over almost every living human but John she sees eye to eye.

"Off to see the godmother."

"In Croydon?"

"Nah, she's only fifteen minutes away."

* * *

It's not often that Amy clings so desperately onto each word issued from the mouth of a guest speaker. She's done her best not to squeal since Sarah Jane Smith walked in, and hearing her talk about experiencing the world, not just letting it pass you by – nothing has inspired her more. No other lecturer has said things that make Amy think that they really _get it_, that they understand how much of the earth there is to see and how much of life there is to be lived.

That's why, when the lecture ends, and many other students are filing out, Amy stays. She goes against the flow of traffic, feet traveling faster and faster down the stairs to the focal space of the lecture theatre, to where Sarah Jane Smith is packing up her things, speaking to Amy's professor – where John Foreman, in all his tweed, is sneaking in through a side door and making his way over to his godmother, big toothy grin already in place.

The professor leaves just as Amy arrives, and Sarah Jane is engulfed in a hug from John, and when they pull apart, Amy sees John and John sees Amy and Sarah Jane sees both of them, and the looks being exchanged.

"What are you doing here?" Amy asks, substituting fondness for fire.

John nods to Sarah Jane, his face a big smug. "Godmother."

"_Oh_ – hello," says Amy quickly. She smiles wide and hopes her face hasn't gone as red as her hair. She extends a hand to Sarah Jane Smith – it sounds mental even in her head, and yet here she is, doing exactly that – and adds, "I'm Amy Pond. Big fan."

Sarah Jane beams at her. "Hello, Amy. Very nice to meet you." Turning to her godson, she furrows her eyebrows. "How do you two know each other, then?"

"Uh – _well_ – "

"He almost ran me over with a yellow roadster."

Miss Smith chuckles. "Oh, of course he did. Never great with meeting girls, were you, John?"

"How many near-murders have you committed, Doctor?" Amy smirks, while John looks again from his godmother to his _Amy_.

"O – Only yours," John argues. He clears his throat and leans over to Amy, fiddling absently with his bowtie. "_You_ were the one who asked me to – to _coffee_ again!" He says this as if it's a scandal.

Sarah Jane, clutching her bag, smiles at them from a few feet away. "I'll leave you two to it, then." John protests, but she waves a hand. "Nice meeting you, Amy. Bye, John."

"Bye!" Amy calls cheerfully to the journalist. John clenches his jaw, still standing so close that he's almost leaning over her. Amy raises her eyebrows. "You keep that up and I'll have to assume you're like all the other sexy, mysterious blokes."

"Oh, so I'm sexy and mysterious?"

"Not at all," Amy murmurs. "Only now you're trying to be, and I think that's working quite well for you."

He smirks, suddenly oozing self-confidence and something that Amy tries not to be attracted to. Tries, and fails. The smirk, and then: "Well, d'you want to get a drink now or wait until tomorrow?"

She glares at him. "Now – if only because you never told me Sarah Jane _bloody_ Smith is your _godmother_."


	3. Custard and a Kiss

**Disclaimer**: I was inspired to write this after that incredibly emotional Christmas special. You know the one.

"**Custard and a Kiss"**

_have you no idea that you're in deep?_  
_i dreamt about you nearly every night this week_

Amy Pond doesn't like clinging to someone else's group of friends as though she has none of her own. However, Mels has organized a get-together in their dorm, and she's found herself somehow sandwiched between a Bachelor of Teaching and a medical student. The first, Clara Oswald, is petite, with large, open eyes. She seems to have a sense of humor as quick as the way she speaks. The medical student is the beautiful, self-assured Martha Jones. Martha has a lot of classes with Rory, and therefore they know each other quite well, and Clara's taking their course on pediatrics, so Amy – though host – feels like the stranger in the room.

She leaves to get herself a drink, and continues into her own bedroom, which is safely separated from the group outside. She breathes out deeply, running a hand through her hair. The orange spills through the gaps of her porcelain fingers, polished with midnight blue at the ends. She sees her phone at the end of her bed and decides to call John.

_Is this clingy?_ She pauses for a moment. "Whatever," she tells herself through gritted teeth. "After not speaking to him for a day I don't think a phone call will kill him."

* * *

Craig's eyes widen and he waves his hands as if trying to stop John picking up the phone by not touching him at all. "Don't – I'm trying to – _mate_ – what – "

"It's Amelia."

"_Oh_." Craig freezes. He stares expectantly at the astrophysicist, raising his eyebrows in anticipation. John just strides out of the kitchen and down the hall and makes sure his door is shut.

"Wasn't expecting a call from you, Pond."

_Does that mean you're pleasantly surprised?_

"Surprised, yes. _Pleasantly_…"

_John!_

"Oh, of _course_, Amy – don't worry about it! More importantly, _why_ are you calling me? Shortage of doctorates in your area? An escaped fish?"

* * *

Amy rolls her eyes. "_No_, but Mels is having a party and I'd love to spend some time with someone I already know and totally adore – I mean, if you're busy, you don't have to come at all, but on the off-chance you're not, I'd _really_, _really_ like it if you did."

She bites her lip, slender fingers gripping tight on the phone.

_Is_ _it at your place?_

"Yeah, yeah – Room 7 – actually, I'll meet you outside where you dropped me off the other day. That'll be easiest, yeah?"

* * *

John arrives and Amy's accustomed to him wearing the same old tweed so there's an emotion akin to coming home after a long holiday when she feels the material under her fingers, pressing against the palms of her hands as they embrace.

"Thanks for coming."

"Anything for you, Amelia Pond."

She smiles at him and tries not to fall in love with the way his mouth curves upward as he says her name. They make their way up the stairs together; she wonders if she should put her hand in his, but he seems to like being the one who instigates handholding and so she leaves this gesture to be his.

She opens the door to her room and music spills out of the room. John's face breaks into a toothy grin. "I played this at school once! _Come On Eileen_ – I'd broken my pinky in a football game so they threw me on triangle."

"Who's this, Amy?" asks Rory, who stumbles up to both of them. He's grinning and puts an arm around John, which doesn't bother him, but makes Amy wonder if Rory's drunk. "Haven't got a new boyfriend, have you?"

John smirks. "Am I your boyfriend, Pond?"

She rolls her eyes. "Why do you choose these moments to forget your puppy façade?" He raises his faint eyebrows. "You know – you act like a five-year-old on Christmas morning half the time – and all of a sudden, you're – you're – "

" – Whatever you are," says Rory, his gestures becoming more flamboyant and his speaking becoming less so, "make sure you're good to Amy here. She's absolutely _incredible_." He chuckles. "You know what, Amy? I think you – you might be more important than the entire universe. Right now."

Amy puts a hand on Rory's shoulder. "Don't say that in front of _this_ one," she jokes, nodding her head to John. "He's an astrophysicist."

* * *

Amy leaves John with Martha Jones, meaning to go and grab her drink from her bedroom. She had asked him to go with her, but he'd gone back to being the blushing, bumbling bowtie-wearing bozo and just gaped at the thought of it. Instead, she runs into Clara.

"Amy, who's that?" the shorter girl points, her mug of tea in the other cardigan-covered hand. Of _course_ Clara Oswald is drinking tea at the time when Amy most wants something stronger.

But what holds Amy's attention is the fact she's pointing to John. "Er… that's my…" _Boyfriend? Is he my boyfriend? He asked me that. Rory asked me that. He isn't. We haven't even got off. Not a snog. _"John."

"Your John?"

"Yep!" she says brightly. "That's my John."

* * *

"I'm a doctor," John tells Martha Jones.

"Oh, me too, once I get all this school out of the way!"

"Medicine?"

Martha nods. "But I've heard you work up at Greenwich Observatory. That's pretty impressive! What are you, twenty-four?"

"Twenty-three," he corrects.

Martha's expression indicates this is clearly not bad. She presses her lips together. "Are you here with Amy Pond, then?"

A dopey smile grows on John's face. "Yes, she invited me."

"How long have you two been friends?"

"Oh, not too long!" John waves it off with one hand. "I almost ran her over a few weeks ago and we've been thick as thieves ever since."

* * *

It's midnight and Mels has slinked off to her bedroom with the fishy bloke Jim, though Amy thinks this is to cover up the fact that he is about to pass out. The rest of the party has thinned out: everyone's gone home. She's rummaging through the fridge and John's sprawled on the couch, where a couple of hours previously, Amy was sitting with Clara and Martha and devising the plan to call him.

"D'you want anything?" Amy asks, realizing John's nutritional needs probably much later than she should have. "I warn you, I don't think we've got much."

John springs up off the couch and squats down beside her in front of the open refrigerator door. "I _am_ a bit peckish."

Amy pulls out one of two cartons, then immediately throws it in the bin to her left. "Yoghurt – two months out of date. Best avoid that."

"Still got custard, though," says John, removing the full carton of custard from the shelf. They both stand and Amy swings the fridge shut.

"What, are we sharing a tub of custard?"

"_Well_…" John reaches forward for the handle to the freezer, directly above the fridge. Amy chokes out a warning but he pulls it open anyway, and an entire 32-pack of frozen fish fingers slide out onto John's left foot. "Holy _Moses_!"

Amy picks up the box of fish fingers while John nurses his foot. His eyes are half-closed as he hops up and down but he also seems to be nodding at her. "That'll be great."

"What?"

He sounds almost cheerful now, and the pain in his foot seems to be subsiding. "Fish fingers and custard, Pond! Perfect minimalist meal! Just what I've been craving."

Amy laughs at him, setting the fish fingers down on the bench beside the custard. She watches John, still giggling. He's wonderful, he really is. Even the way he's zipping about now – hands flying everywhere as he flings open the box of fish fingers and shoves them onto a baking tray, whirling around and slipping them into the open oven door – is light, and full of hope, and if she didn't know what to call it she'd name it _sunshine_, because that's what he makes Amy feel like.

She's never been in love but she thinks there's a first time for everything.

The fish fingers are cooking and the custard's on the bench and Amy Pond wants to kiss John Foreman. She wants to grab onto the lapels of his tweed jacket or the front of his braces that she can see peeking out from under it. She wonders what he'd do, whether he'd push away or kiss her back. Amy isn't the type to have blokes push away, though. She's never been that type. Yet with John she finds her breath hitching, and she's second-guessing something she thought was second nature.

"Are you alright?" John asks.

Amy flashes back to life. He's leaning towards her, concerned. One hand's reaching for hers, and so she takes it, nodding. "Yeah, I'm fine. Totally."

She looks down at their hands, intertwined.

"Are _you_?" she asks him.

"I am splendid, Amy Pond."

She smiles at him, taking a step closer. She's been stripped of her confidence; this bloke is completely alien to her. Glancing down at their hands, she turns her head to face him and asks, "When was the last time you kissed someone?" Looking down again, avoiding his face, almost, she chuckles. "I mean, I know you're good-looking in a bit of a giraffe way, but the tweed and elbow patch combo screams more _granddad_ than _snog me in the back seat of a car_, and I'm not sure people – "

"Why're you asking, Pond?"

She shrugs. "I don't know, I was just thinking… if it's been a _dreadfully _long time, then perhaps I shouldn't just jump right in there."

John's eyes go bright, his grin a bit giddy; yet, in spite of all this, he seems quite unsure as to how he should handle the situation. "Oh – _oh_ – Amy, I…"

Amy takes another step closer, and John blushes a shade redder than her hair. They're matched for height, so she leans forward – and it's a pleasant surprise when his lips meet hers first.

But as quickly as it begins, it is over. John pulls away, anxious.

"Amy – are you – are you _sure_ you – "

" – Of course I'm _sure_, silly," Amy tells him, winding her fingers around the lapels of his tweed jacket just as she had imagined a few minutes prior. "That was _nice_, wasn't it? I mean, could've _lasted_ a bit longer," she mutters, "but that was nice."

He's looking at her warily but there's a twinkle in his eye. "Amy…"

She moves in closer, eyelashes fluttering as her gaze trails up and down his face. "Yes, that's my name."

"I'm – the time we spend together – I – it's – "

"That's great," she murmurs, hands sliding from his jacket to his shoulders, where they rest. "Hold that thought."

She kisses him again and John thinks about supernovas and planets and the expansion of the universe and how everything is so quick to flare and fade but the last thing he ever wants to leave behind is Amelia Pond and there are no combinations of 26 letters with which he sees fit to tell her. They stand there, for a moment, just taking it in, until the air smells no longer of Amy's perfume and John's after-shave but instead of burning fish fingers.

Amy's eyes widen and she squeals. John's limbs are flying everywhere as he twirls across the linoleum of miniscule kitchen to the oven, trying to remove the tray without a mitt and hurting himself – as one would predict. Amy grabs the glove hanging beside the spatula, scurrying past the incapacitated John to retrieve the fish fingers, or what's left of them.

She sets the tray down on the bench and goes about waving a tea towel against the smoke detector – the last thing she needs is to wake Mels and Jim the Fish, especially with her _astrophysicist semi-boyfriend_ half-kneeling on the ground with his hand running under cold water.

* * *

"Well," Amy says, a few minutes later, folding her arms and surveying the damage. "That's not _too_ bad. Only about half of them are _completely_ inedible."

She looks down at John, who is surveying the fish fingers with his eyes parallel to the countertop. He stands, posing as a detective inspector, then picks up a fish finger and dips it heartily into the custard conveniently placed beside it. Mouth full, he turns to Amy and nods enthusiastically. She picks one up as well. They eat tentatively at first, scraping off burnt bits, unsure if they like the taste, but after a while, they warm up to fish fingers and custard.

"You know," John muses, "we could open up a restaurant, Pond – only serve this."

Amy chuckles. "We'd get no business, you dunce – and don't you have the Observatory to worry about? By the way," she adds fondly, still giggling, "you've got custard on your chin."

John's eyebrows furrow, desperately searching for the custard that he obviously cannot see. Amy reaches over and wipes it off, her hand staying a moment longer. There's another kiss shared. John continues to wonder about the universe and the alphabet and how impossible it is to define his feelings for this one nineteen-year-old girl.

He smiles to himself. _Mad, impossible thoughts, for mad, impossible Amelia Pond._


End file.
